


Clara and the Cup o’ Cussuccino

by Nehszriah



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Babyfic, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Coffee Shop Cat, Coffee Shops, Emotional Constipation, F/M, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Kidfic, Lack of Communication, Malcolm's dad being a low-impact version of a minister, Post-Goolding Inquiry, Prompt Fic, Smut, Tons of OCs, babies ever after, but that's okay, mentions of Pinkwald, relationship drama, small business owner Malcolm, they have a cat, this clearly got a little long, various holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 11:28:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11919939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: She came in to ask about the daily special: Just Ask You F*cking Tit". Too bad she keeps on coming back.[Malcolm/Clara coffee shop AU; rated for language, sex, graphic descriptions of potential locations for glitter, and even more swearing]





	1. Chapter 1

What do you do when you go from being a top behind-the-scenes player in the government to a prison parolee in the course of eight months?

For Malcolm Tucker, it was an interesting dilemma. He didn’t want to whore himself out to the fucking press—he was done with that. They were his closest allies until they weren’t, because there’s something acerbically, morbidly satisfying about destroying one of your own when you’re in the business of information, and he was not going to let that bite him in the pasty arse again. He wanted to start fresh, with a second career that wouldn’t gnaw out his soul and feast on his innards and leave him with nothing but an empty husk. Having been put through the wringer for what ultimately amounted to a tarnished name and a lifetime’s worth of work down the drain, he knew that what he needed to do would not only give him a release for all the stress that he had built up over the years, but a way to still remain his caustic, Caledonian self.

His brother suggested he write a series of self-motivation books. Naw; too many logistical problems.

His nieces and nephew thought that the best choice was becoming the foulest-mouthed talk show host in all of telly. Tempting, but it would involve being marginally nice to people he wouldn’t normally be caught dead with, all because their agent booked it. Not a go.

His sister and brother-in-law wanted him to see about giving lectures on the political system at their university. Same problem as with the nips’.

His father wanted him to meditate and reflect on what he had been doing with his life’s work. Fucking fuck, Da—get off me back already, and don’t back him **_again_** , Mam.

What he ended up choosing surprised even his family, and _that_ was saying something.

* * *

Shoreditch.

Trendy, gentrified, bloody _Shoreditch_.

She had only gone and applied to Coal Hill Secondary School as a joke when she had finished exams at uni, a thing to fill time, yet it ended up being the only place that called her back on her CV. Now, as what seemed to be karma being incredibly unfair, Clara Oswald was getting ready to complete her _ninth year_ of teaching baby hipsters, hipsters’ babies, and those in the precarious situation of being taught English literature before they had a complete grasp on the English language itself. The kids couldn’t help it, really, and most of them genuinely _did_ try their best (and _oh_ , the satisfied, glorious feeling of watching when the kids _got it_ would remind her why she chose teaching to begin with), but when one’s job involves reverse-parenting and overcoming multiple language barriers at once for hours on-end, no one blamed her for the occasional job hunt and looking forward to the summer holiday a wee bit more than she would ever admit.

Early March that year was being particularly chilly and damp, so when she saw that the sun had popped out when she was leaving the school building, Clara took it as her opportunity to get a decent walk in. There was a bus stop several blocks over that was on her route and it was the perfect distance away for when she was feeling a bit sluggish. It had been a while since she had taken a walk, and with every heeled step on the pavement she could feel her frustrations with the mechanisms of life vanish bit by bit. Eventually she slowed her pace and glanced around, seeing what was new in the neighborhood.

Not much seemed to catch her eye… that was until she saw “Cup o’ Cussuccino”. It was a tiny place sandwiched between a vegan grocer and a yoga studio, with a chalk sandwich-board on the pavement that read “Today’s Special: Just F*cking Ask, You Tit”. She chuckled at that, tempted enough by the silliness of it all to walk in.

“Come the fuck in or fuck the fuck off,” a voice called out soon as she entered. It was gravelly, Glasgow, and definitely a guy. Clara went towards the counter and saw a grey-haired, beaky man in an apron arranging pastries in the display case.

“I take it you’re the proprietor?” she asked with a smirk.

“First one to guess that all day, honest,” he scoffed. The man closed the case door and looked at Clara, his pale eyes betraying his amusement. “You don’t look like the average Shoreditchian.”

Clara had to think about that for a moment—oh, yeah, she had walked out the door in business- _conservative_ that day due to a scheduled visit from the Ministry of Education. “I teach secondary school down the road and my superiors want to make the children can pay attention to their Behn, Burns, and Brontë.” He grinned at that, leaning on the pastry case with a sort of casual ease.

“To do that you’d need to be in a fucking burqa, and not even that’s a guarantee, if you don’t mind my saying,” he said, holding out his hand. “Malcolm.”

“Clara.” She shook his hand and glanced at the menu board. “So what, may I ask, is a ‘ _Just Fucking Ask, You Tit_ ’?”

“My version of there not being one,” he replied. “What would you like?”

“Single cappuccino and one of those lovely-looking tarts here,” she said, pointing in the case.

“Coming up.” He turned around and started working on the cappuccino while Clara began to dig through her purse. “Take a seat.”

“Shouldn’t I pay first?”

“Make sure you keep the nips literate and the first one’s on me.”

Not one to turn down free food, Clara sat down by the window and watched as a group of teens came into the building. A couple were some students of hers while the others she at least recognized as belonging to the hallowed and horny halls of Coal Hill. She scrolled through the news on her mobile while she waited on her order, eventually delivered by Malcolm himself.

“Leave it when you’re done,” he said, placing the tray in front of her. He went back to the kids, leaving her to look at the free snack. There was a heart in the cappuccino foam, which made her chuckle inwardly as she drank it. It might’ve been a bit obvious, or it was the only pattern he could make. Either way she looked at it, the gesture was certainly amusing.

She left amongst a flurry of customers and cuss words, knowing that she would be back.

* * *

Later that night, after marking and dinner for one and even more marking, Clara sat on her computer doing a bit of research on Malcolm of Cup o’ Cussuccino. What she found surprised her: a short prison sentence after a government scandal that resulted in him perjuring, complete abandonment from a political party he spent nearly half his life working for, and first-hand accounts that made it apparent that he was going soft on his clientele. Completely baffled, she printed out a couple news stories and approached him the following morning, when she walked by the shop and found it empty save for himself.

“Did you mean to do it?” she asked, voice cracking.

“That’s a pretty fucking loaded question,” he scowled. She could tell that he knew what was on the papers without even so much as glancing at them. “Narrow it down.”

“Did you mean to terrorize those people?”

“Since it was the last resort when getting them to do their fucking jobs? Yes.”

“Did you mean to perjure?”

“Fuck no—that’s career suicide for _anyone_ , my sort more so.”

“Did you mean to leak that man’s NHS number?”

“I’m a lot of things, love, but a monster ain’t one.” He furrowed his brow and leaned towards her slightly, bringing his voice low in case someone else walked in the door. “I may look and sound the part, but that would have impacted that man’s family. Even if leaking his number _was_ an option at that point, it wouldn’t’ve taught him a lesson for attempting to fuck with things he couldn’t comprehend. Tickell had a wife, kids, parents, and they were already in pain when that number was leaked. They did _nothing wrong_ —why would I punish someone like that when they’re already paying in ways they never deserved in the first place?”

“Then why did you have it?”

“Part of procedure when a non-political starts getting themselves in the mix, to make sure they’re not a potential danger to anyone’s wellbeing; shame it ended up being only towards his own.  I can assure you that the Government had it, but it’s now shredded and forgotten like some cheap porn novel. That sort of thing is always researched on both sides, but never exposed… not unless it could prevent a disaster. The timing would have been off to do that—he acted sooner than anyone anticipated and became a martyr in the process. He was supposed to die a hero.”

“…and what, may I ask, is the difference in the world of politics?”

Malcolm considered her, impressed by the distinction she made. “A hero dies old, in their bed, having made their dealings with the political system and surviving. A martyr’s career dies, either with them or in front of them, exposing their open veins to the world.”

“Are _you_ a martyr?”

“Fuck no—I’m the fucking sacrificial goat. _Meeeeh_ , _meeeeh_ , nobody cared when I was publically gutted and roasted on a spit. Political martyrs can always spin their way into another public career—or pay to have it done for them—while nobody fucking cares about the goat once he’s slaughtered and his fucking bones have been sucked clean. No one sees the good he did, only the bad, and that is the end of him and his public career, forcing him to pick up what’s left of his carcass and figure out what to do with it all. They fucked this goat like a lonely shepherd, and sacrificing him was the perfect way to hide their depravity.”

The bells attached to the front door jingled and a woman with a seafoam-green sideshave, jeans, thick-framed glasses, and a tutu walked in while tapping away on her mobile. Clara and Malcolm stared at one another in silence, the tension awkward.

“Latte and Manchester tart to-go, please,” she finally said. He nodded, she paid, and he took Sideshave Tutu’s order. Clara left immediately after getting her stuff, nearly storming out the front door.

Well, that was that.

* * *

Two days later and, to Malcolm’s complete and utter surprise, Clara returned. It was after she got off of work, right before the late-afternoon rush, and she brought her marking with her. She ordered a sandwich and regular coffee with milk and sugar, setting herself up in a corner so that she could mark in peace. When the rush was over, Malcolm noticed that she was still there, still marking and having finished her sandwich and drained her cup. He took another sandwich and coffee to her, along with one for himself, and sat across the table from her.

“Thank you for coming,” he said quietly. “It means more than you know.”

“Thank you for the extra order,” she replied. Clara picked up her coffee and lifted it towards him in a silent toast before taking a sip. They sat in silence, him eating and her marking, before it was finally too much for Malcolm.

“Why _did_ you come back?”

“The food’s good, the coffee’s good, and so far I’ve only paid half the time—not all bad if you ask me.”

He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“The flirting’s nice,” she added.

“Used to do it a lot in my past career, if you’d believe it,” he chuckled. “At least, it would have been flirting in any other context; it’s surprising what will scare the fucking shit out of people, and sometimes that’s one of ‘em.”

“Funny—I don’t feel particularly terrified.”

“That’s because you don’t seem like much of a cock-up. Cock-ups don’t teach Restoration homoerotism, poems by a Scottish farmboy, and Irish-Cornish sisters known for passion back when that was unladylike, all in a _state school_. You’re no cock-up… unless we were talking about making cocks _go_ up…”

“Ha, nice try.” She tossed him a cheeky smile and sipped her coffee. “Unavailable until further notice.”

“Who’s the lucky sack of skin, then?” he wondered. It didn’t surprise him that she was spoken for, though the answer to his question did find him slightly off-guard.

“Let’s just say that if this were another time, I’d still be wearing plenty of black.”

“Oh… sorry.” He took a large bite of his sandwich to prevent himself from saying anything else, worried that his cuntish ways from days gone by would automatically make him blurt out the exact opposite from what she should have heard out of him.

“No harm done; remember, not dwell, yeah?”

“Yeah. At least it wasn’t divorce—you don’t even have the comfort in knowing who you thought was the love of your life has turned into sloppy fucking seconds when it comes to that.”

“Ouch,” she grimaced. “A bit messy?”

“Messy don’t even fucking _begin_ , darling.” The sleigh bells attached to the door and drew his attention away as a businessman in jeans and a blazer came in with an order so large that the only explanation was that the usual intern was out sick. Clara watched Malcolm as he put together the man’s order and nearly bollocked him out the door—that was certainly the place’s shtick.

“Ever think about hiring someone else on?”

“Nah… at least not for now. It keeps my mind focused.” He took another sip of coffee and leaned back in his chair, enjoying the rest it gave his back. “Who was this gallant steed that would have kept you in mourning all the way until now?” She looked back at him with big, sad eyes, clearly remembering and glad he even bothered to ask.

“His name was Danny Pink…”

* * *

“So why a coffee shop?”

Malcolm glanced over at Clara, pausing his cleaning of the espresso machine. She was marking papers in her usual seat, rain from the extra-British weather they were experiencing hitting the windowpanes, both keeping other customers away and her inside, with them being the only two in the shop.

“Lots of people need their fucking coffee in order to not be complete wastes of space during the day—why not?” he posed. “’Sides, it’ll be good for the nips.”

That made her raise an eyebrow. “You have kids?”

“Two nieces and a nephew,” he elaborated. He thought about continuing, and then did so. “My sister is moving to Chicago for a couple years to teach some courses in Celtic society; hubby’s going, but they don’t want their kids getting Americanized. Brother’s a single da and is getting a promotion that involves lots of long-term travel, despite already dumping his girl off at our sister’s for a couple weeks at a time for the travel he does _now_.”

“…and Uncle Malcolm’s simply volunteered to take them all on?”

“If the clientele fucking cooperates, then yeah. Next term.”

Clara had set her marking pen down by now, paying as much attention to Malcolm as she could. He had never divulged this much information in one go before, and she was acutely aware that she should pay attention. “I remember staying at Gran’s a lot when I was younger; that not a good option, I take it?”

“My parents are fine on their own for the present, but they don’t need to look after three tweens that are bound to be hell-raisers if what genetics are telling me pans out. A Man o’ the Kirk don’t need that sort of stress in his life, so his wayward eldest boy might as well take the load off of him so he can keep concentrating on his dying flock. It’ll make me feel less like I missed out in the end, anyhow.”

“…missed out on…?”

“C’mon—donnae take a genius to figure that one out.” He went back to cleaning the machine, letting her ponder his words. They liked one another for their smarts, so that was all he needed to say to confirm her suspicion.

“It really did take a lot out of you, didn’t it?” she wondered. “Concentrating on your job?”

“Knew from the start that the bloody career would take so much fucking out of me that I’d be more of a sperm donor than a da, so I tried not to think about it too much… which worked out considering how my marriage panned out. You think, then you want, and just because someone wants something doesn’t mean that they _need_ , let alone deserve, it.”

“I’ve heard of people not knowing what it is they desire until it’s no longer in reach.”

“Naw, it’s better this way. Trust me,” he said, adding a half a chuckle.

It was not enough to convince Clara, though she dropped the conversation and picked up her pen again. The subject was obviously a sore one and she understood that sore subjects needed time to open up. She was halfway through the page when she stopped to snicker, which caught his attention again.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know whether it’s weird or perfect that you’re the son of a _minister_.”

That got him to laugh too, genuinely this time. “Yeah; imagine the shock on his face when I said I wanted to get into journalism and politics instead of theology. Elsie and David didn’t follow his path either, so it’s their poor nips that are feeling the pressure. They’re Tuckers though—they can handle it.”

“Made of the tough stuff?”

“When they come to London, they can be whatever the fuck they want to be, long as they don’t destroy themselves or others,” he beamed. “M’parents mean well, I’ll give ‘em that, but considering how they acted when I dabbled in punk? Nips and prunes alike need to be out of the line of fire when the hormones start flying.”

“…and because you speak both languages, you’re the intermediary?”

“Exactly.”  He glanced over at her, seeing how intrigued her expression was. “You got nieces or nephews? I didn’t think you’d have kids of your own, or you wouldn’t be visiting my sorry arse to drop money so often.”

“No kids and was an only child myself,” she shrugged. “It’s a bit lonely at times, but not bad.”

“Students turn you off to having kids of your own, I take it?”

“Turned me off from having _those_ kids; my own would be more well-behaved in general and only sass their teachers back when they _genuinely_ deserve it.” She threw him a smile and gestured at the paper she was in the middle of marking. “Still doesn’t mean I don’t love it when the kids I have now _do_ succeed. The world gets a bit brighter, you know?”

“Was like that every time a politician didn’t shit their pants in front of the media.”

“You must have been so proud.”

They shared a laugh at that and returned to working, the sound of the outside rain and the banging of metal coffeeware the only sounds that went between them for a long time.

* * *

It was a very, _very_ busy day.

When Clara had arrived after work that afternoon, she found the little coffee shop absolutely swamped with customers. She saw Malcolm both taking orders as well as filling them—how he wasn’t mixing up everything out of the enormous pressure of the situation was beyond her—and she sprang into action without so much as a second thought. Going behind the counter, she set her bag and purse in an empty space between bottles of reserve flavor syrup and gently shoved the proprietor aside as he attempted to re-man the register.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” Malcolm growled lowly in her ear. Clara simply pointed back towards the drink machines.

“Continue filling orders over there and I’ll keep things under control here,” she said.

“…but you don’t…!”

“Consider this payment for last week’s sandwiches.” She then turned towards the next customer in line and began to take their order, grabbing a bag to shove a croissant in as they spoke.

Hours passed, the crowd not letting up, until it was finally closing time and Malcolm felt alright about bollocking any leftover stragglers into fucking the fuck off until the following morning. Once the building was clear and the door was locked, he turned towards Clara, who was cleaning up the condiments counter.

“Why the fuck did you do that?” he wondered. “You don’t work here.”

“You’re right—I don’t—but you were dying out there,” she replied with a frown. “Don’t you _ever_ have help? You can’t possibly do everything yourself.”

“It’s safer than relying on others who end up cocking it up and disappointing me in the end.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” She turned to face him and folded her arms over her chest, shifting her weight to one hip. “You’re going to run yourself ragged going like this. There’s barely even time for prepwork in your schedule.”

“Being a former workaholic has its benefits later on in life,” he said. “I do most of my prepwork all day on Sunday, as well as Wednesday and Thursday nights. I might bake shit fresh every morning, but only after extensive usage of the fridge and freezer.”

“…and no one can tell the difference?”

“Not a one.”

Clara studied Malcolm, frankly astounded at his work ethic. She never thought he was a lazy man by any means, but this… this was above what she had ever thought.

_Wait a second…_

“Your nieces and nephew are coming in late August, yeah?” she asked, a smirk on her face.

“Yeah…? Why?”

“Chances are that you don’t have the time to clean up and get your place ready for them, with you working all the time,” she figured. “I have some extra time on my hands—and a lot of it soon enough—would you like a part-timer who already has a knack for home-baking?”

“Wouldn’t that be a step down for you?”

“Isn’t it for _you_?”

“I own a business.”

“…and I am about to have two months of going stir-crazy. Might as well stay in the workforce and not get too lazy.”

Malcolm paused, then scowled. “That rhymed.”

“I’m a literature teacher—it’s a standard feature.”

Not wanting to dignify that with a response, Malcolm stared at Clara, considering her offer. She made _sense_ , which wasn’t a big shock, and it could possibly be the relief he needed in order to get the flat ready. The rooms needed painting and some decent furniture and…

Fucking fuck, she had him there.

* * *

School had ended for the summer the day before, meaning that Clara showed up to Cup o’ Cussuccino promptly at quarter after five in the morning. She found the back door unlocked and walked in to see Malcolm taking trays out of the walk-in freezer and placing them on a counter.

“Ovens are preheating,” he said in greeting. “Wash your hands, get that apron off the peg, and you can start prepping the chocolate for drizzling, checking the berries for faults, shelling the peanuts—” He was cut off by a knock at the door. “That must be Yousif with the day’s coffee delivery; fucking cunt is going to drive me up the fucking wall one of these fucking days with how _fucking_ early he is…”

He went to answer the door and the two men began throwing colorful, fun-loving insults at one another, starting the day’s tone off with the sort of language Clara had become accustomed to while being on the premises. She went to the tubs of berries on the counter and began to sort through them; he had sacrificed his pride just in time, it seemed. Just a quick glance around the kitchen showed how much needed to be done and it was probably a good thing that she was there to help.

Forty-five minutes and the shop opened, the first customer letting herself in directly at six o’clock and ordering a large plain coffee and a strawberry pastry, paying with exact change. Every so often Clara would emerge from the back of the shop with trays of treats for the quickly-emptying case and helped out at the register, selling venti drinks that Malcolm subsequently whipped up and all sorts of pastries and sandwiches and other food that everyone snatched in their hunger. There was very little time to rest until the end of the night, after the doors were locked and the open sign turned off.

“For it being your first day, you did pretty well,” Malcolm snarked. Clara was sitting in a chair near the back of the shop, slumped down far enough to nearly fall out.

“I remembered working in a café being a different sort of difficult from teaching, but that one afternoon shift did nothing to prepare me,” she admitted. The idea to take off her shoes flickered across her mind, quickly snuffed out when she remembered how filthy the floor was since it was still unmopped.

“Still think I’m gonna keep yeh,” he said. “You’re not only competent, but the décor’s leagues better now.”

“Ha, ha… very funny.”

“At least you know that it’s genuine.”

“Yeah, yeah… what do you need me to do for cleanup?” she asked.

“Just wipe down the counters, the inside of the cold case, and mop the floor—I’ve got the kitchen and the coffee machines,” he said. “I’m not too worried, tomorrow being Sunday and all, so you can do it when you come back tomorrow, if you’d like.”

“No—might as well get it done now while I’m here; not every night is going to be a Saturday night,” she decided. Malcolm nodded and went into the back, allowing her to get to work. The front of the shop—aside from the coffee machines that were genuinely too tall for her to reach properly—was spotless when she left half an hour later, and half an hour after that she crashed into her bed wondering when it was she last went to sleep this early without being sick.

She wasn’t awake long enough to figure it out.

* * *

“Thank you for visiting Cup o’ Cussuccino; now kindly fuck the fuck off.”

It was a moderately-busy weekday and things were going smoothly. Clara had eased into her new job almost seamlessly, once she had gotten over the initial shock of running around all day again. Malcolm would laugh every time a set of kids came in and panicked seeing their teacher behind the register, let alone when someone would try to chat her up and she would turn them down flat. She was even getting more comfortable with the swearing part of the job, as the entire shop’s thing was colorful language, and it was rolling off her tongue as though she was a regular Whitehall denizen.

She handed him the order and continued with the next person in line. He lingered a short while, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. There was something about her that was keeping his attention, making it so that he _couldn’t_ look away, and he attempted to still fill the drink order while he thought.

Fuck, what _was_ it? What was it about Clara that was pulling him in? Was it the way she was standing, all taut and gym-fit? The way she fit the company shirt, which he frankly had made up just because she was coming on as an employee? How she had just a small section of her brown hair that fell out of her ponytail and behind her ear… the same brown as those wide, gorgeous eyes of hers?

…fucking hell; keep it in your fucking pants, Tucker. She can do better than you.

“Oi, mate, can I have m’drink now?”

Malcolm’s attention snapped towards the young man standing in front of the counter and realized he was standing there with the lad’s frappuccino. He then slammed the drink on the formica top, spilling a couple drops in the process.

“Fuck off, yeh wee cunt, until you can grow a proper beard.”

* * *

Friday; there was always something about Friday that made it extra-cuntastic when it came to work. Mondays were, well, _supposed_ to be a cacophony of painful dry-fucks, yet Friday… Malcolm had noticed that certain things happened on Friday that made him and his lone employee stay past closing time later and later and _later_ on the start of the weekend. This particular Friday happened to coincide with what was apparently a glitterpaint-themed café crawl that he wasn’t informed of beforehand or something, because the shit was all over his establishment without so much as warning or a granny-fucking apology.

“It looks like a unicorn wanked off in here,” he observed with a grimace at closing time. “You head on home, Clara. I’ll snap some shots of Ziggy Stardust’s vomit and clean it up before heading to bed.”

“Why would you want to take photos?” she wondered, already headed towards the cupboard with the mop and bucket.

“See if I want to prosecute, for one, and two, so I can show the nips.”

“It’s just glitter—you sound like an old man.”

“This shit causes damage when it hits the right place, and is almost fucking impossible to get rid of,” he scowled. “I’ve _personally_ been on the bad end of some glitter explosions and let me tell you: it wasn’t fucking fun.”

“Are you saying that Number 10 has been glitter-bombed?” Clara marveled.

“No,” Malcolm replied, “though it should have; I’m referring to my uni days. That shit’s probably still up me arse if you dig deep enough.”

“…a description for the ages,” she snickered.

He tried to get her to go home a couple times over the course of the evening, but she wouldn’t have any of it. Clara didn’t want to leave Malcolm to clean up everything by himself, so they worked side by side until well past when either of them normally went to bed, something that made her curse when she realized what time it was.

“Shit—I’m going to need to call a cab,” she frowned. “Had bad vibes going on the bus this late before.”

“Why don’t you just stay the night? I’ve got the space.”

She considered that carefully. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah—then I can get a critique of the kids’ rooms before they come over.”

“Just because I work with kids doesn’t mean that I know what every single one of them likes,” Clara laughed. It didn’t matter that she was already following him towards the door to his flat; joking was what was going to soften the blow of staying overnight. Well, joking and the fact that she was dead-tired, but she needed to humor herself.

Up the stairs and past another door on a landing and Malcolm led Clara into his flat. It was a veritable mishmash of private life and office, with an entire corner of the large sitting room devoted to business-looking things, while the remainder of the room was a mix of DIY supplies and personal belongings. From her vantage point, Clara could see where the kitchen branched off, as well as a half-bath, and twin offshoots on opposite sides of the sitting room that she figured led towards the bedrooms. Malcolm grabbed a set of sheets out from a linen cupboard and opened a door in one of the hallways, on the door labeled “Matthan”.

“Green’s Matt’s favorite, so I decided to go with that,” he explained. Sure enough, the room was a pale, soft green, with forest green as an accent trim. The furniture was a dark wood—Clara was too tired to figure out which—and there was a dresser still sitting in a state of half-completeness while the bed and desk were both assembled.

“Uncle Malcolm is outdoing himself.”

“Naw—gotta make sure they’re comfortable here. I mean, they could end up staying for a long time and I don’t want them to feel like they need to leave soon as possible. Yeah, this was my office, but I’d rather have a good place for them to call their own instead of me needing to store bloody _paperwork_.” He then brought her over to another door, this one with the names Iscah and Sarala tacked onto it. “It was a bit more difficult for the girls, but I think I got it.” Opening the door, he showed her the very blue bedroom that was a bit larger than the first, but was clearly one that was going to be shared. A golden yellow swirled around on parts of the walls, clearly free-handed detail work that caught Clara’s attention.

“Uncle Malcolm is _really_ outdoing himself,” she said, sitting down on one of the beds. They were the only furniture actually assembled and not still in boxes, as it was clear that this room had more to do than in the other. “Sara and Carrie are going to love it.”

“I hope so,” he nodded. He glanced around the room, observing his handiwork. “The other doors lead to a bathroom and another bedroom; it’s risky, though I opted to keep the girls in the same room and have the last one stay the guest room just in case, but I don’t know what’ll happen with all three kids sharing the same bathroom. Matt might utilize the one in the main of the flat instead, which makes me glad that I have my own ensui…”

Malcolm stopped talking when he saw Clara lying down on the bed now, fast asleep from sheer exhaustion. He put the top sheet over her and eased the still-folded fitted sheet under her head as a pillow. She slept on, not realizing that he had covered her and turned off the light, making his way towards his own room on the other side of the flat. It felt almost wrong to leave her there, yet he did anyhow.

At least tomorrow was going to be back to the shit-grinder.

* * *

By now their teamwork came as effortlessly as, well, anything really. Clara smiled inwardly as she dodged a pan being carried across the kitchen, Malcolm’s arms lifting just high enough for her to duck under as she went to grab more sugar for dusting pastries.

“Do you have the extra cupcake batter ready for the neighbor’s order this morning?” she asked.

“I was gonna whip ‘em up while these are in,” he replied. He stuck the tray in the oven and set the timer. “They’re all vanilla, yeah?”

“Forty-eight of them, and you better hurry up, because Jan is going to be here in twenty minutes and once she walks through the door, the floodwaters start rising.”

“For fuck’s sake—stop nagging me, woman.” He grinned at her as he pulled ingredients down to toss into a bowl. “It’s almost like you belong here or some shite like that.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” she said, placing the remaining pastry on the display tray.

Once the cover was on, she rushed it out to the counter and returned just as quickly, rushing over to the berries to start sorting them for the next round of desserts. Clara quickly inspected a blueberry and, not finding it to satisfaction, popped it in her mouth.

“Hey, stop eating all the fucking profits.”

“You’ll thank me later.” She took a strawberry and turned around, eating it purposefully slow while leaning on the counter. Malcolm went red and turned his back to Clara, which was precisely the reaction she was looking for.

Ha; take that.

* * *

“…and if you don’t like it, you can fuck off _permanently_ for all I fucking care!”

Malcolm locked the door behind him and flicked off the open sign, another busy Saturday in the books. Turning around, he leaned against the door and surveyed the damage: neither he nor Clara were able to do any sort of cleaning for hours, which meant that the shop was fucking trashed. He turned off the main lights and went behind the counter to join Clara on the floor, as she didn’t even have the strength, let alone cared, to go all the way towards one of the chairs. They looked at one another, completely exhausted, and chuckled at the absurdity.

“It’s times like these where I just want to fucking quit, but the reason I don’t is looking at the fucking sweet-arsed profits later,” he admitted. Profits were not personal gain, but gain for the nips’, and thank _fuck_ he didn’t need to remind her of that.

“ _God_ , I’m not going to get the coffee grounds out from under my nails for days,” she laughed. The dimmed work lights above them gave her a Malcolm she hadn’t seen before: softly lit and tousled. Carefully, Clara leaned in and pressed her lips against his, her heart leaping when he quickly breathed in yet did not draw away.

“Fuck… you feel it too…?” he asked. “Wait, what about Danny?”

“I mourned already today—he would understand.”

“…you sure…?”

A nod.

“…but I don’t have any…”

“I’m on the pill, and you’re closed tomorrow on account of it being Sunday,” she reasoned. By now she was positioning herself in his lap, chests flush together as she kissed his jawline going back to his ear. “Don’t make me beg—it’s unbecoming.”

“Funny, I was about to ask you to make _me_ do so,” he replied. She reached between them and palmed him through his trousers, eliciting a strained groan of delight. “Not here; upstairs.”

“Fearing for the pastry case?”

“No, just that the CCTV can see us.” Malcolm pointed towards the ceiling where a camera was still blinking red—on and recording. Clara stood, gave him a hand up, and remained patient as he led her into the back of the bakery, unlocking the entrance to his flat and bringing her up the stairs.

Not two seconds after Malcolm had closed the flat door, Clara had pushed him up against it, straining on her tiptoes to reach his neck. He made things easier by picking her up by her rear, lifting her into place so that they could jam their tongues in one another’s mouths. Breaking for air, he deeply inhaled the smell of her hair; coffee, tea, biscuits, and a sharp, musky aroma that he inferred was sweat.

Cock straining against pants and trousers, Malcolm knew he did not have long before he popped off and potentially ruined the entire moment. He carried Clara into his bedroom and pressed her down atop the mattress. She grunted and bucked her hips in response—a favorable reply. _Fuck_ , it had been a long time since he’d done this, but he was prepared to still go all-out for the woman under him.

The woman under him? Before he could realize it, Malcolm was shirtless and on his back, gazing up at an equally-shirtless-and-knickers-clad Clara. Chocolate smudged across her face and sugar crystals in her hair, she seemed to be the closest thing he’d ever seen to a bona-fide angel. She undid his trouser zip and shoved both it and his pants down past his knees, surveying the Scottish bounty she was about to claim in all her conquering Englishness. Of all the fucking historical analogies, it had to be this fucking one, and the terrifying part was that he didn’t mind one cocksucking bit.

Clara’s knickers were off it a moment and instead of cock _sucking_ , it turned into cock _riding_ as she positioned herself over him and went down hard, grinding him into the mattress. _Fuck_ , she was so smooth, so blazing warm and inviting, so concentrated on the moment—drove him fucking nutters.

Yes, **_nutters_**. Got a fucking problem with that? Didn’t think so.

And so she fucked him, over and over again, until he couldn’t hold back anymore and finally came in her, neck straining and fists clutching the sheets as he gasped desperately for air. When she didn’t tighten and moan like he had, Malcolm ignored his embarrassingly heavy breathing and laid her down, easing his quickly-softening prick out and replacing it with his hands and lips. _That_ was how he made her orgasm so fucking gorgeously, his face between taught, nearly crushing, thighs. The feeling of her gripping his hair and the sinful sounds coming from her made him go at her again almost immediately, turning pain into pleasure as it was her turn to squirm helplessly within his grasp.

Four times—sweet _fuck_ she could go a long time—and they were done. Collapsed and sweaty in the two-day-fresh sheets they languidly kissed and fondled until they both fell asleep from pure exhaustion. All they knew was that her hand was in his sweat-dampened curls and his head nestled on her shoulder, arms wrapped and feet tangled.

It was blissful, it was serene, and it was, above all else, theirs.

* * *

Four-thirty—Malcolm woke up on instinct, his bladder replacing his forgotten mobile alarm as he realized that he needed to piss something fierce. Clara was not lying next to him, or on top of him, or even under him, which sent a pang through where he figured his heart used to be, before the cunting government pulled it out like fucking Mola Ram. He sat up and relief washed over him—she was in the bathroom, standing there in knickers and one of his t-shirts, combing through her hair in the mirror. Getting out of bed, he shuffled over to the bathroom and slid around her.

“Pardon, but nature calls,” he mumbled. Fuck, the bathroom light was bright. He took himself in-hand and relieved himself, moaning quietly in the satisfaction that could only come with a nice, long piss. Glancing out the corner of his eye, he saw Clara watching him with a look he could only categorize as “amused”. He tried to scowl, though it came off more as a pout. “What?”

“Nothing,” she smirked. She placed down the comb and waited for him to flush the toilet before wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to his upper arm. “Just thinking about how our professional relationship is in utter shambles now that we’ve slept together and watched each other pee.”

“Omnishambles, pet.” He then furrowed his brow, regarding her with curiosity. “When’d I do that?”

“When I got up at one—you _did_ seem half-asleep at the time. It was when you offered me this shirt to wear, saying my breasts looked cold.” She backed up to let him see which one it was and he grimaced; Grumpy the Dwarf was scowling back at him from the fabric. “Didn’t take you as a Disney fan.”

“Sara got it for me when David took her to Disney World two years ago,” he grumbled, pulling her close again. “She was so proud of herself too—I couldn’t turn the nip down.”

“Then maybe you should be the one to wear it,” she chuckled.

“I have a better idea.” He pawed at her rear, pressing himself against her. “It will look great _on the floor_.”

She grinned at that—what the hell, why not?

* * *

A few hours later they went downstairs to the shop and began cleaning. It took most of the late morning and afternoon, yet they did eventually get everything in place and started the week’s prep. Malcolm ducked out for a time and returned with a couple curries, which they ate in the back of the shop, and a surprise strip of condoms, which Clara declared they would make use of later that night once everything else was done. Being on birth control was great for more than just contraceptive, that was true, but since she hadn’t been on it for sex-reasons for a long while at that point, it felt safer to go a bit overboard.

Not even five minutes passed after Malcolm and Clara finished the week’s prep and they were back upstairs, indulging themselves in their new form of release. It would have felt awkward had they not known each other for a while prior to this distinct change in their relationship, yet this… this felt right. Teasing one another and flirting while downstairs, being good friends on the outside, and fucking one another stupid upstairs in his flat, taking a carnal turn to things. _Fuck_ it felt good to, well, fuck.

Clara left the flat that night long enough to head back to her place, feed the fish, and pack an overnight bag that she brought back with her to Cup o’ Cussuccino and its rather horny proprietor.

She was moving on, and to a man that she imagined Danny would approve of after getting to know him. That was, above all else, what really, truly mattered.

* * *

They had soon fallen into a routine.

Staying over on weekends and prep nights, Clara would sleep with Malcolm above Cup o’ Cussuccino in his flat, the two of them taking turns shagging one another until they couldn’t think. Otherwise things ran as normal, with her going back to her own flat every once in a while, as well as manning the shop by herself during slow times in order to give Malcolm a bit of extra time to get some work done on the spare bedrooms. Things between them quickly grew closer as the anticipated date of arrival of Malcolm’s new charges was approaching, which made him feel more than a bit nervous.

“Clara…?” They were lying in bed together after another night of excess, completely starkers as they were curled up in the sheets.

“Yeah?”

“What the fuck are we doing?”

She chuckled at that and kissed his hair. “We are cuddling after a long day at work, Why?”

“No, I mean, what are we _doing_?” He sat up and gazed down at her, disheveled and relaxed, and frowned. “I’m a washed-up, fucking _ancient_ , waste of cum and you’re a clever, brilliant woman who could and _should_ have men half my age and twice my stamina lined up out the door just to have the privilege of _looking_ at you. What the actual fuck is this?”

“I think you’re being too hard on yourself…”

“Tch—I highly doubt.”

“…and even if you weren’t, I may enjoy looking at pretty, young men, but I examine what a man can bring to the table above all before considering him as I consider you. Young is nice, though not all in the younger set have what you do.”

“Erectile fucking dysfunction and two decades on you?”

“Worldly knowledge and a clear idea of what he wants in life, more like it,” she clarified. She too sat up and caressed his cheek gently. “I wouldn’t be here unless I wanted this.”

“...and what _is_ this?”

“Doing right by children who aren’t even yours, getting your hands dirty in the daily operation of a small business, loving your girlfriend the best you can…”

“ _Girlfriend_ ; that’s a funny word for you,” he chuckled softly. “You’re no girl—you’re a _goddess_.”

“Don’t let Reverend Tucker hear that or he might make you repent.”

“Naw; Da’ll think I’m sinning as it is the moment he finds out I’m with you, as though I’d keep you in my bed and hidden away from the world. I just…” He trailed off, unable to look at her.

“You what?” She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, feeling the slender muscles just underneath the skin. “What’s the matter, Malcolm?”

He avoided her gaze, frowning worriedly. For all the times Clara had seen him scowl and sneer and glare, there being worry on his face sent a shiver through her, simply because it was not natural. The Deposed and Exiled Dark Prince of Spin was not a worrier, even when it came to his shop’s fortunes.

“Malcolm…? Tell me.”

“I’m… I’m just terrified he’ll be able to convince me he’s right this time around and have me push you away before...” He didn’t continue, out of what, she could not tell, but Clara could see _something_ deep off in his gaze… something she wasn’t sure she wanted to poke, yet knew she had to if things were going to go forward.

“He won’t, I can assure you of that,” she said gently. Clara laid back down and pulled Malcolm after her, allowing him to rest his head between her breasts. “When was the last time he was able to convince you that he was right?”

“…after my divorce from that fucking _hag_.”

“…and that was _ages_ ago, yeah? It’ll be fine.”

“You say it because you never had him as your da.” He held her a bit tighter, keeping his long arms wrapped around her torso and up to her shoulders. “I gave up on that shite years ago because of him, but somehow he still drags me back and feeling like a naughty brat again every time he feels as though I’ve cocked shit up. Sometimes I have, but… fuck…. why do you think I’m trying so fucking hard to prepare things for my nephew and nieces? Otherwise they go to Da, and that’s like a cunting death sentence when it comes to being able to _do shit_ with your life.”

“Even so, does he mean well?”

He snorted at that, burying his nose deeper. “Of course he _means well_ —they all _mean well_ —but meaning well and doing well are often on the opposite fucking ends of the fucking spectrum.”

“Simply because one person in your life, or even many people in your life, aren’t good at what they do, doesn’t mean that _everyone_ with passing similarities is just as bad as they are. Hatred is too strong an emotion to waste on someone you don’t like, after all.”

“Where the fuck you hear that?”

“At a concert—it doesn’t matter. What matters is that, your father does what he does out of love for you and your siblings and his grandchildren, yeah?” A grunt. “Long as you remember that, you can keep your wits about him if he starts guilting you. Life isn’t about realizing that you’re wrong, but that everyone is, including you, your parents, your idols, your friends… everyone is wrong, because no one is right all the time. It’s called _being human_.”

A heavy silence weighed in the air, punctuating the conversation. Clara could feel Malcolm’s breath on her skin, warming it steadily as he thought, drawing out each passing second into an eternity of its own. Several eternities passed before he shifted himself onto his elbows and reached to kiss her lips.

“I need to be shagged by secondary school teachers with life advice to impart more often,” he joked. “You’re right, this time, and I won’t let it bother me. Thank you.”

“That sounded amazingly sincere for someone of your sarcasm levels.”

“Yeah, well, when preparing to deal with a man who makes you feel like you’re still in lower fucking secondary, even grown-arsed adults need a bit of reminded.”

“Yes, your arse _is_ fully-grown,” she smirked. She grabbed at his rear, made accessible by how he was positioned over her, and squeezed teasingly. “I think it would do great if it was being made to sex up a certain someone… a certain someone also in this bed…”

“How your lack of subtlety is this fucking erotic, I have no fucking clue.” He ground his hips against hers, demonstrating how hard he was, and murmured hotly in her ear. “Clara?”

“Yes, Malcolm?”

“Would you like to move in?”

* * *

Clara was there at Cup o’ Cussuccino when the Greater Glasgow contingency arrived, ready to meet and greet her newest combination students-and-roommates as well as potential in-laws. Malcolm’s brother-in-law Bruce and brother David were the ones who drove down all in one Sunday, transporting tweens and elderly alike as the family used the excuse of moving the children to get in a brief reunion. The proud uncle introduced her to their new charges and allowed them to head upstairs to unpack in their new rooms while the adults visited, questioning the children’s new potential guardian. They returned back to the shop with wide, excited eyes and unknowingly diffusing a potential spat between Uncle Malcolm and Granddad Donald that had been about to explode despite Miss Clara and Granny Joan’s best efforts.

Dragging the adults upstairs, the kids showed their parents and grandparents the flat that had replaced their uncle’s large house in a leafy, quiet neighborhood. Gone were the DIY supplies and clutter, replaced with the makings of an actual home. Though there were still leftovers from the house, new things were mixed in, making it feel less like a display in a furniture store and more like people actually _lived there_. A cat hopped down from a cupboard and rubbed itself up against the kids’ legs, purring affectionately; this was going to be the best place _ever_.

As he inspected the flat, the Reverend Tucker grew quiet, pausing every so often to ask a question and pensively nodding while digesting the answer. The kids showed him their rooms—still unnaturally excited for their age and how many miles they had traveled—and subsequently the handiwork of his eldest son and the girl with whom he claimed to now share sleeping arrangements with. Suitcases had already exploded inside the girls’ room, with a shipping crate sitting in the middle, absolutely _begging_ to be opened.

“…and you said you helped…?” the Reverend Tucker wondered. Clara handed Iscah a pry-bar and gave the old man—a haunting ghost of her beau in the years to come—a gentle smile.

“The designs were Malcolm’s doing through and through, but I did help with a couple things,” she admitted. “It was a challenge, that’s for sure, though it was worth it in the end.” She watched as the cousins helped each other pin a One Direction poster up on the wall and begin arguing which would be the one other thing that would dare cover the swirls and stars that were their doting uncle’s handiwork. “My part was mostly in helping put together furniture, or man the shop so Malcolm had time to do things himself. He’s a hard worker, I hope you realize.”

“Of course, lass. I know better than most.”

“That’s part of what I like about him, if you haven’t figured it out yet.” They exited the room and popped inside Matthan’s, seeing that Bruce and Malcolm were helping the boy open the crate with his things. “He was determined to make this place a good one for the kids, so they didn’t feel unwanted today. Not many bachelor uncles would have even considered that could be how they’d feel.”

“My eldest boy has always been observant,” Reverend Tucker nodded. He walked with Clara into the sitting room, where Elsie and Joan were waiting for the potential fallout that might have entailed and made their car ride home a terror.

“…and…?” Elsie wondered. Reverend Tucker put his hand on Clara’s upper back and gingerly pushed her forward.

“I think Malc might be onto something with this lass here,” he said. The collective relief that permeated the room cleared the air.

* * *

“Hey Clara, do you think you can ask Mr. Davies about this assignment for me? He doesn’t seem to give a straight answer.”

“If it doesn’t seem like a straight-enough answer, then you need to read it a different way,” Clara said. She glanced across the table at Iscah—thirteen years old and still so much to learn—and continued to mark her own papers. It was well into October now and things were settling into rituals that seemed to suit the makeshift family well, part of which included weekday afternoons in the coffee shop to keep Malcolm company. “What do I keep on telling you kids about interpretive readings? You need to be able to see multiple variations of the same story.”

“Aunt Clara, she’s just sore because we don’t have work to do!” Matthan piped up from behind the counter. He and Sarala were helping Malcolm by fetching people their pastries and sandwiches, the two eleven-year-olds so in sync it was nearly as though they were twins… well, twins born with funny genetics that allowed for his complexion to be leagues lighter than hers, but twins all the same.

“We _are_ doing work, Matt!” Sarala replied from right next to him.

“Different kind of work! I’d rather be here than writing a paper for Mr. Davies.”

“Try saying that during a rush while the fucking milk frother’s down,” Malcolm smirked. One of the regular customers walked in and the proprietor tapped his niece and nephew on the head. “Okay, which one of you wants to learn the register?”

Both tweens volunteered, but Sarala reached the register first. While Matthan pouted and helped his cousin, his sister leaned over the table and whispered quietly.

“When are you going to tell Uncle Malcolm?” Iscah asked.

“Tell him about what…?”

“I heard you talking to Mr. Coburn after school today, and…” Iscah shrugged uncomfortably, as though she wasn’t ready to admit anything herself. “I guess we’re going to need to paint the guest room and put a different bed in it, yeah?”

“How very astute of you,” Clara replied. She pointed the end of her marking pen at Iscah and raised her eyebrows in warning. “Only after I’m certain this is going to be a for-sure thing. Sometimes plans… end themselves… so I don’t want to raise any unwarranted alarms.”

“Raise what alarms?” Malcolm asked. He was approaching the table with some sandwiches and drinks for them, setting the snacks on the table after a kiss to the top of Iscah’s head and one to Clara’s lips.

“That I’m going to start administering some pop quizzes if these scores don’t improve,” Clara lied effortlessly. She pecked Malcolm on the lips in return, only for another customer to walk in the door.

“What the fuck do you want now, yeh randy bastards?” Malcolm walked away, leaving the ladies to their food and work. Instead, however, Iscah leaned over the table and lowered her voice yet again.

“He’ll marry you in a heartbeat, you know.”

“I’m fully aware of that, Carrie.”

“He’s raving _mad_ about you.”

“That I’ve also figured out.”

“Granddad can do the christening.”

“…which is both a sweet and horrifying thought; thank you.”

“He only dropped Matt twice and he turned out to be fairly normal… as far as little brothers go.”

“One more not-school-related word out of you for the next half an hour and you are _grounded_ , young lady.”

Iscah sat back down in her seat properly and pouted, knowing full-well that Clara had that power. She sipped her tea and glanced out the window at the damp, dreich landscape that felt all too much like home.

“So does that mean you’ll ask about the assignment?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People keep on asking for the update to this story, and usually I've been too busy/uninspired to hash it out, but recently I was asked about it and something clicked, thus this happened. Enjoy!

Malcolm Tucker knew that he was doing much better than he should have been, when all was said and done. He was raising his nieces and nephew, with a wonderful woman at his side; his business was thriving and no one gave a fucking shit about the past and blunders in his former life. As he sat up tabulating the week’s earnings and overhead on the chilled October evening, he felt a pair of hands rest on his shoulder and a kiss press into his hair.

“Hey Malcolm, come on to bed,” Clara said quietly. She waited as he took off his specs and palmed his eyes, leaning onto the desk with his elbows on either side of the laptop. “Do you realize how late it is?”

“I’m almost done,” he claimed. “Just go—I’ll be there in a tic.”

“Last time you said that I was asleep before you came to bed.”

“Not exactly my best moment, I’ll give you that.” Malcolm leaned back in his chair and tilted his head back so that he was looking up at Clara. “You’re nice from this angle.”

“Just _nice_?”

“Fucking wonderful, pet; you need to be the taller one more often, not just in bed.”

“That’s better.” She kissed the tip of his nose and chuckled lowly; the nips were long down for the night and she didn’t want to give any of them reason to wake up. “So, you think we’ll be able to get that boba tea machine the girls want by Christmas?”

“If we get a couple fan-fucking-tastic weeks, yeah,” he said. Going back to the spreadsheet, he began to put in the final numbers in. “I still think it would be a better idea to keep the money aside and wait until springtime to get it; cold tea is more of a summer than winter thing and I think it’ll catch on better then. Besides, I’m still faffing on that shutdown between Christmas and Hogmanay, just because so much of the fucking customer base leaves ‘round then for whatever shire kicked ‘em out to begin with.”

“Then make sure your argument is airtight before explaining yourself,” she replied. Clara leaned into Malcolm, running her hands down his chest as she kept him captive in his chair. He finished his work, hit save, and closed the computer, allowing her to turn his chair around and pull him from it.

Following obediently, Malcolm felt his cock begin to twitch as he was led into his own bedroom. He was glad, when the door shut behind them, that the kids’ rooms were on the other side of the flat, as the noise he made when Clara grabbed him was positively indecent. Picking her up, he carried her over to the bed and ground his hips into hers as he pressed her into the mattress. She moaned quietly in reply and began to undress him, urging him forward. His shirt came off with ease, as did his belt, and she tried to keep her composure as he dove in to start nipping at her neck while his hands went under her skirt.

“You start your new medicine yet?” he growled in her ear. She had stopped her birth control medication two months before by recommendation of her GP so that she could start a new one. It had meant plenty of condoms within the weeks that followed, though it also meant that he was getting anxious to know when they could safely put them aside again.

“No,” she breathed. She squirmed as his fingers teased her, making her back arch. “About that…”

“Later pet, please; if I stop now, there’s no waking m’fucking prick back up.” He inhaled her scent—it made his blood hot and his cock pulse as he reached for the side-table and the box of condoms within.

“Remember, yeah?” With hands everywhere, neither of them were very conscious of what else was going on aside from their hastened foreplay. “Sooner rather than later.”

“Certainly.”

Except, unfortunately, they did not talk about anything after they were done with their vigorous fuck and the condom lazily discarded in the bin kept close specifically for snot-rags and the used rubbers. Both were asleep faster than they would have liked, and when Clara woke up, Malcolm was already dressed and down in the kitchen prepping for the day. Her stomach roiled and she made it to the bathroom just in time to vomit in the toilet—the time to talk was ruined until at least that evening.

Fuck.

* * *

“Why weren’t you in class today, Aunt Clara?”

The woman glanced down at Matthan as they walked along the pavement towards the Cup o’ Cussuccino. Iscah and Sarala were a bit further ahead, leaving the lad with his uncle’s girlfriend. “I was in your class this morning, wasn’t I?”

“Yeah, but Tafa said you weren’t in for _his_ class. Did you spend too much time at home after lunch?”

“I didn’t go home; just ran a little late, is all,” she replied. “I had an appointment I couldn’t move.” The tween scrunched his nose and furrowed his brow in thought—he looked more Malcolm’s son than nephew in that moment, so much so that it made Clara’s heart skip a beat. “Nothing’s wrong, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“That’s good,” the boy nodded.

By now the storefront of their home was in sight, making it so that Matthan quickened his pace to be with his sister and cousin as they walked in. Clara followed close behind, seeing that there were a couple customers lingering about the shop. She placed her bags in a cupboard and took out her apron, putting it on before washing her hands.

“Um, Aunt Clara…?” She glanced over and saw Iscah putting on her own apron, giving her a funny look. “Are you alright to work in the shop now?” It took a moment for Clara to realize what she meant, having been thrown off by the title of “aunt”, which was a very recent addition to the teen’s vocabulary… as in since she had overheard a conversation with Mr. Coburn the previous week.

“Scold me when it’s nearly summer,” she replied lowly. She stepped aside as she dried her hands and allowed Iscah to wash up. The girl was good at keeping a secret, that much was for certain. “I still need to come clean about it though.”

“You didn’t?!” Iscah gasped. She quickly looked at her uncle, who was cussing out the cat for nearly escaping out the front door, and back to Clara. “What are you waiting for?!”

“None of your business,” Clara said firmly. She wanted to continue, yet stopped when she saw Malcolm carrying their tortoiseshell-and-white Scottish Fold back to the counter.

“Carrie, lock Fuckoff in the flat as punishment for trying to make a run for it,” he scowled, passing the cat to his elder niece. Iscah complied and hauled the cat away, past the younger two who were already sprawling their homework out over a table in the back corner. Malcolm then made a pass at Clara, placing a kiss behind her ear. “How was work?”

“Bearable,” she replied.

“The lady-parts-doctor appointment? That was today, yeah?”

“Yeah; everything’s working.”

“Excellent. I look forward to getting back to business as usual.” The bell rang as a couple came into the shop, just in time for Iscah to return to the floor.

“Fuck the fuck in or fuck the fuck off!” the teen beamed, knowing that there was no way she could have gotten away with such language under normal circumstances. The customers stared at Iscah, then at Malcolm and Clara, and back.

“You got a fucking problem with m’ niece following company protocol?” Malcolm asked. As he began to banter with the newcomers, Clara sank back towards the inner counter, beginning to wipe up the spills and crumbs that had probably only just occurred, keeping to herself.

When in the world was she going to tell him?

* * *

Despite Sarala’s birthday being on a weekday, Malcolm had wanted to make sure that his niece had the best birthday manageable. Though he wasn’t allowed to take her out of school for the day (Clara’s orders), he made sure that there was a birthday cake waiting for when she came back to the Cup o’ Cussuccino for the day, all decorated in sugar spiders and blood-red confectioner’s gel.

“There’s the birthday ghoul,” he grinned as the pint-sized contingent returned. There had been a fancy-dress party at Coal Hill, which meant that Clara had chaperoned a zombie, Hawkeye, and Paddington Bear to and from school. “Go into the back and wash up—that cack all over your face is gonna suffocate your skin.”

“Okay,” Sarala said. She went into the kitchen to find something to wipe the smudges of talcum powder off her undead face, except instead of water in the sink, he heard her squeal in delight. “Is this my cake?!”

“Only for after dinner,” Clara said while she made sure the other two were sitting down with their homework. Once Sarala was powder-free, she hugged her uncle and went straight to her own work. There was no one else in the shop, for the after-school rush had not yet decided to show itself.

“You really need to wear those boots more often,” Malcolm told Clara as she came around the counter to make herself some tea. She was going straight for the hibiscus and rosehip blend, something he noticed she was doing much more often as of late.

“You took off your cape,” she mentioned. Yes, her witch’s costume called for black knee-high boots, but she had also left that morning to Malcolm swooshing around the Cup o’ Cussuccino dressed in his vampiric best. He wore the costume well enough to make Christopher Lee himself proud and hard, which coincidentally was enough to make Clara quake in her boots.

No Clara—those feelings were what put you in this deadlock of a mess.

“I took some shit out of the oven not too long ago; capes don’t like ovens,” he shrugged. The bells on the door made noise, calling for their attention. A South Asian woman in scrubs and holding a wrapped package was at the door, glancing around looking for someone.

“Aunt Nisha!” Sarala gasped once she saw her. She ran over to the woman and nearly tackled her in a hug. “I’m so glad you came!”

“I’m glad to see you too,” Nisha smirked. “Just because everyone else wants to be silly doesn’t mean we all have to be.” She tossed Malcolm a knowing wink and he gave a nod in reply. “Give me a mo’ with your uncle, will you?”

“Okay!” Sarala retreated back to her homework, allowing the adults to talk.

“Thanks for coming,” Malcolm said as he and Clara came around the counter to meet her. “She’s been doing well, but you know how she misses people. By the way, this is Clara, my girlfriend.”

“I’ve heard,” Nisha said. She shook Clara’s hand, a cordial attitude coming easily. “None of the other Chaudrys come around, I’m afraid. No one liked it when Nilima and David were together—even I thought he was too old for her—and it was worse when Sara was born. It’s stupid to keep a grudge against a child, but here we are.”

“It means the world that you’re here, if her talking about you coming hasn’t been clue enough,” Clara said. If she was under threat of having someone from Sarala’s mum’s family stop by at random, she wouldn’t have minded if it was Nisha, as she was nice enough as far as newly-introduced people go. “Will you stay for dinner? Sara requested her favorite: butter chicken over mashed potatoes.”

“I can’t—night shift—but is it alright if I distract the kids from their work for a bit before I have to leave? I imagine they can handle the interruption.”

“I’m one of their teachers, so I know how to keep them on-track whether they want to or not,” Clara smiled. Nisha then went over to her niece and sat down, placing the gift on the table and inquiring as to what the three youngsters were doing. Once the kids were properly distracted, Malcolm leaned down and murmured lowly into Clara’s ear.

“Want to leave the place to Carrie for fifteen minutes?” he asked. “It’ll be good practice for her.”

“ _No_ ,” she said, blushing furiously. “What if she needs us after ten? I am not going to let you break child labor laws for a _shag_!”

“They’re only theoretical for family businesses and you know it,” he replied. He then gave her a smug grin, making use of the false teeth he had gotten just for the occasion. “We’ve got another half an hour before the rush can even _think_ of beginning—the timing’s perfect.”

It was a good thing, Clara reminded herself as she quickly followed Malcolm up the stairs, that not only was he _correct_ , but that she knew that Nisha was responsible enough to not let anyone harass the children while they were gone. Twenty minutes and a rushed cleanup effort later and they were both proven right, just in time for their guest to leave for her shift at work: not a single customer had come in and they could put the kids in the hands of someone that was not either of them.

Perfect.

* * *

Closing her eyes and inhaling deeply, Clara allowed the scent of Malcolm’s cologne to fill her nose and calm her stomach. It was nearly 3:30 in the morning and she was attempting to not vomit everywhere, taking Malcolm’s towel to her face in hopes that the relaxing smell he wore would still be there from the day before. It was, thank _God_ , and she tried to be as quiet as possible, certain that any small noise could wake the man in the bed a few feet away.

This wasn’t fair—she knew at least that to be true as she sat on the toilet. She was now eight weeks pregnant, nearly nine, and she couldn’t find the nerve to tell Malcolm about the mishap. Her GP was nagging her about getting an ultrasound done to make sure everything was looking fine, yet the very thought of it froze the blood in her veins. While she couldn’t deny she was pregnant, nor could she deny she was more than a tiny bit—dare she say it— _thrilled_ at the idea, there was still so much that stood between her and being wholly happy about what was happening.

Malcolm released a snort from his spot on the bed, making Clara jump. He was the biggest conundrum of them all when she thought about it. While she was convinced he did well with Iscah, Sarala, and Matthan when they were smaller, she also knew there was a distinct difference between minding someone else’s babies and having babies of one’s own. He would be fifty-five in April (which was two months before she roughly estimated she’d be due), and was running a fledgling business while he was at it. Would he have it in him to run the coffee shop while experiencing the taste of new fatherhood? Was it even something he wanted to experience at this point in his life? He took to housing the children on the other side of the flat fine enough, yet they did not cry through the night… or need nappy changes… or require near-constant attention… it was enough to make her scream.

There were many things that Clara Oswald could figure out without an issue, yet telling the father of her child that he was soon to be just that was getting the best of her.

Before long, there was movement on the bed and Malcolm shuffled into the bathroom. Clara moved so that he could relieve himself properly, looking guiltily at his bare back and pants-clad rear in what she nearly felt was shame. He turned to look at her when he was done, his hair still rumpled and eyes glassy from sleep.

“You alright?” he asked. She nodded in reply. “What’s with m’ towel?”

“You spilled that bit of cologne yesterday, and something about dinner isn’t sitting right. I should be alright now; you helped more than you know.” She touched his thigh and snaked her fingers around to his rear, watching the fabric of his pants shift as his cock hardened.

“Maybe it was too much ghee; the kids were shitting their pants at how much ghee I was using,” he muttered. Malcolm then lifted Clara into his arms and carried her back to bed, settling himself so that he could mount her easily despite his sleepy lack of coordination. It took him a bit to get going, but once he did, he took care of his lady’s needs just as much as his own before collapsing back into bed with his arm draped across her chest in sleep.

What felt like a few minutes of sleep later and Clara was awoken by the movement of Malcolm getting out of bed for the day. She got up as well, realizing it was a bit later than she had wanted to be awake anyhow—she was taking Matthan and Sarala on an overnight class trip while Iscah was going to spend the night at a friend’s place and she needed to make certain that no one was missing anything. She exited her bedroom to find that the kids’ things were scattered everywhere as they tried to get organized in theor early-morning haze of half-alertness.

As Clara corralled her charges and their things, she noticed one conspicuous absence: Malcolm. He had already gone down to the kitchen downstairs, leaving her to the kids. While they did normally switch off who got the kids ready in the morning, that was true, the fact that he had vanished when the job was extra-tedious had not been lost on her. By the time she could walk away long enough to go downstairs and steal some tea, it was nearly time for them to leave.

“Have fun.” Clara glanced up from the hot water spigot and saw that Malcolm was looking directly at her. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said quietly. She continued to put together her drink, only to have Malcolm come up behind her, holding her upper arms and leaning towards her ear.

“Are you sure you want to be a chaperone?” he murmured. “You don’t look ready to do anything with the way you’re wobbling about.”

“I’m fine,” she stated. “Backing out now would result in cancelling the trip—I’m not about to disappoint my students.”

“Miss me as much as I’m already missing you,” he requested, leaving a kiss on her neck before getting back to customers. Clara quickly finished off her tea (wow, she missed caffeine), and herded her makeshift brood out the door towards school, not giving Malcolm another word or glance as he kept busy.

Things were falling apart; she could feel it.

* * *

The rest of the day had gone pretty much as normal for Malcolm. The customers weren’t as bad as they could have been, which was good, and Fuckoff had only vomited on the rug in the flat, which he was disturbingly used to dealing with. He had a leftover sandwich from the shop for his dinner and fell asleep with the cat on his feet. It felt odd to wake up the following morning to an empty flat, but at least he knew it was for one night only; he’d had his nieces and nephew around for so long that it seemed out of place for them to be gone, and as for Clara… it felt flat-out _wrong_ to not wake up in her arms and kiss her good morning.

He had been warned by multiple parties that settling into a life with others in his place would make him grow comfortable, accustomed, content in a way. There was never the threat of that in his old career, where he would go nearly weeks on-end staying at the office, and he never really thought about such a threat until his home was suddenly above his workplace and he was three-quarters to being a washed-up hack with barely anything to his name.

Yeah, he liked the way things were now, at least that was for sure. A bit of familial chaos was good—refreshing, even—and what was even better was knowing it would return that night.

Going into automatic, Malcolm got ready for the day and went downstairs into the kitchen to start the day’s prep. Near everything had been baked and in different stages of cooling, with bread even gone through the slicer, when the music he’d had on his phone softened by the sound of his ringtone.

Picking up the mobile, Malcolm saw the number and cringed inwardly. _His parents_. Figuring he could at least hang up if the call got too irritating, he put his music on hold and answered it, putting the call through to his earpiece so that he could still work and hear clearly.

“Yeah?” he muttered. “Why’re you calling this early?”

“ _I’d like to talk to you, son, but it seems like you’re always busy_.” Great… his da. “ _Is anyone else up and helping?_ ”

“Just me ’n the cat,” Malcolm replied. “Carrie’s at a friend’s overnight and Clara’s chaperoning a sleep-in class trip for the younger two.”

“ _Good—we need to talk about Clara_.”

“Fuck, Da, I’m not awake enough for this shit.” He grabbed the tubs of yesterday’s delivery of deli meat from the fridge and began to slap together sandwiches. “What about Clara?”

“ _I need to know precisely what your intentions are when it comes to her_ ,” the Reverend Tucker said. “ _You know that I get plenty of questions about you from parishioners and I only want to be truthful when I answer_.”

“Then what the fuck do you want me to say?” Malcolm scowled. “We’re living together, sharing a cat, and she keeps me sane despite the nips and customers driving me up a fucking wall. I wish I’d had someone like her before, but I had Kelly instead, so you can see where that got me. There’s fucking plenty I want to do—trust me on that—but we’re good where we are for now and I’m not pushing anything just to cock it all up.”

“ _She deserves better than that—anyone does_.”

“Okay, yeah, are we done?”

“ _I saw how you look at her, Malcolm_ ,” his father said. “ _You never looked at Kelly like that, nor anyone else you’ve brought around, and none of them looked at you the same way she did… especially not after such a short amount of time. Are the two of you going to live like children or is there ever going to be any sort of commitment?_ ”

“We are not children! For fuck’s sake, Da! I’m fifty-four!”

“ _Then start acting like it; you are only getting older, as is she. Do you want to be a long-term fling or are you going to be something more?_ ”

“I know you don’t have much experience in this, but you don’t exactly move in with a fling,” Malcolm hissed. He stopped making sandwiches and glared at his mobile. “People don’t just _do_ what you and Mam did anymore, marrying young and having kids young and then staying together into the ancient days; thought you realized that when David didn’t marry the Hindi banshee and Elsie had Matt at forty.”

“ _At this point there’s little magic or wonder or spirituality in marriage since you’re already living together. Speaking as your **father** , not a Man of God, I don’t care if it’s just a piece of paper from the registrar saying it’s a purely legal union with no ceremony to it—are you going to provide the lass with a sense of security or not?_”

“What, we can’t feel secure without a marriage?”

“ _Ach… now what was that phrase Mrs. Patterson’s granddaughter used the other day? ‘ **If you like then you should have put a ring on it** ’?_”

Fucking floored at the fact his seventy-seven-year-old, minister father quoted _Beyoncé_ , of all people, Malcolm turned off his earpiece and put the mobile up to his ear. “Why the fuck are you pushing me towards this? You know better than most people that pushing only makes me want to do something even **_less_**.”

“ _I have known you for your entire life, Malcolm_ …”

“…you’re m’ da…”

“… _and I know what sort of conditions you thrive under best. You need Clara by your side, and the only way she’ll stay is if she knows that you are not going to pass her up one day for an even younger woman_.”

“She knows I wouldn’t do that!”

“ _Does she, Malcolm? She has never doubted? Would you blame her if she did?_ ”

Malcolm froze, the morning before flashing before his mind. The look Clara gave him, the indecision she seemed to wear all over her body… it wasn’t about whether or not she wanted to rethink chaperoning so that they could have a night alone. Fucking fuck—she was worried about _them_.

“ _Malcolm? Son? Are you still there?_ ”

“I’ve got a shop to open; ta.”

Malcolm ended the call and set the mobile down. His hands were shaky as he tried to go back to the sandwiches, yet couldn’t for the fucking life of him. Fuck him with his pants at his ankles and arse ground raw—Reverend Tucker was right, _again_. He tried to think about what he could do, what would make it right, only to think about more things he cocked the fuck up.

Shit… what **_did_** Clara think? He perched himself on a stool for a moment to collect himself, trying to make sense of everything. What could she have doubted in him? Where did he slip up? He did his best to make sure that she was never in want or need of anything, and she was definitely the sort of person who would speak up if things were not going how she thought they should… unless…

No, it couldn’t’ve been. A weight sank in Malcolm’s chest as he thought about what he considered one of the worst conclusions he could manage: she was afraid of him somehow. She was afraid of him, or how he would react, or some other shitty thing that was making him the bad guy in the situation. The main problem was that he didn’t know _what_ it was, and that if he asked Clara what was the matter, she could very well lie to him in order to keep the quo at status.

A knock at the back door ripped his attention away, reminding him that he was still crunched for time before the Cup o’ Cussuccino opened. He signed for the produce order and let it get put in the walk-in fridge, getting back to work when the delivery service left. He ended up with only seconds to spare as the first customer walked in, and he made up his mind by the time he had the head tit from the IT firm down the street pick up his near-daily macchiato an hour later.

Thank fuck, he thought, that someone could order _anything_ on the internet these days.

* * *

It had all kicked off with a surprise.

David had returned from a work-trip without warning—the assignment he was supposed to be on all through to the week before Easter had fallen through early and he was not going to be given a new overseas order until after the end-of-year holidays. He showed up at the Cup o’ Cussuccino completely unannounced, which only made his daughter cry in joy as they hugged in the middle of the Saturday evening rush. It wasn’t long before the Tucker Brothers were both behind the counter—the younger at the till and the elder filling orders—and the shop was quickly cleared out in order for the family to catch up over celebratory takeaway.

“I was talking to Elsie while I was packing and she has part of next week off work,” David explained over his noodles. “Malcolm, Clara, do you think it would be alright for me to take the kids up to Glasgow? That way Elsie and Bruce can come back home and we can pretend like we’re not all depressed about being split up constantly.”

“As long as they go in on Monday to get their work from the other teachers, I don’t see why not,” Clara shrugged. She smiled as she watched the kids’ faces light up in joy; even though they now called the flat above the Cup o’ Cussuccino home, there was little that could replace being with their parents again, in their old neighborhoods and amongst their old friends.

Besides, Clara thought, it would give her and Malcolm an opportunity to talk openly and honestly, which wasn’t exactly something they could do often with wandering ears about the flat. He also agreed to let the kids go without a problem, which only served to excite the children even more as they continued throughout the weekend. They could barely contain themselves as they went to school on Monday, nor were they calm as they were shoved towards a sleeper car late that night. For the first time since late August, both Malcolm and Clara were able to go to bed that night without any sort of threat of being walked in on, disturbed, interrupted, or otherwise annoyed, by anyone other than Fuckoff (who merely mewled sadly as she batted at Matthan’s door, wanting her buddy back from wherever it was he went). They slept almost _too_ soundly, leading to pure idleness on every front as they recouped from housing the kids.

Idleness was such a draw, in fact, that it took two days before they were able to get to anything without being dead-tired first. They had gone about their days as usual, with Clara jumping in behind the register to help Malcolm after she had gotten home from work. It was nearing the end of an average sort of night when Malcolm decided to put the plan he had been stewing up since he dropped his family off at the station into action.

“Hey Clara, can you close up?” he asked. “There’s some things I need to do in the flat before dinner.”

“Yeah, sure.”

The smile she gave him pained him, for he knew it was only hollow in the end. He went upstairs and shed his work clothes—putting on clean slacks, a shirt, and a decent jumper in their stead—and rummaged through his drawer in order to find and pocket the ring box he had been diligently hiding since it came by post on Friday. Once he was ready, he went into the kitchen and began cooking dinner.

Garlic, seafood, and wine filled the air as he pulled from memory a recipe that he used to make often when work was beyond shite and he needed to cool the fuck down. From the moment he was tall enough to see over the countertop, cooking had been enjoyable, even therapeutic at times, and now he was aware as to why: cooking was controlling. No matter what happened, a mishap could almost always be fixed and the outcome was truly in his hands. It was a far cry from his Whitehall days, when he would try to cook up the Party politics—so to speak—and everyone else would butt in and fuck it all to Bangor and back. Those times were behind him, though… now the only things he wanted to control was the state of his dish and the banality of customers that walked in the shop door.

“Oh, that smells great,” Clara said as she walked into the flat. Malcolm glanced towards the door and saw her standing near the edge of the kitchen, taken aback at his handiwork. “I didn’t know you were coming up here to cook…” She took a step forward, only for him to put down his spoon and usher her towards the table.

“Sit down, sit down—I didn’t start cooking only for you to finish it,” he said. “What kind of a sorry cunt would I be if I let that happen?”

“Malcolm, I…”

“The nips are gone; let’s enjoy this,” he insisted. “We’re not Aunt and Uncle today, just Clara and Malcolm, and we need to take advantage of that while we can. I’m almost done.”

Clara nodded in agreement and stayed quiet as Malcolm silently finished off the last touches of his pasta dish. He put a heap of food on two plates and brought them over to the table. As he put the plates on the table and sat down, he noticed something that hadn’t been there before: a few Polaroid-looking pieces of paper whose blankness denoted that they had been placed face-down.

“What are these?” He raised an eyebrow and looked at Clara, for she was the only one who could have put them there.

“Had those taken last week; I’ve been trying to figure out the right way to tell you, but my mind’s firmly made-up.” She fidgeted in her seat, broadcasting loud and clear to Malcolm how difficult this was for her, and motioned towards the paper. “You’re the last piece; it can work with or without you. The choice is yours.”

Intrigued by her words, Malcolm picked up the papers and looked at them. It looked like scratchy, black-and-white images of two oddly-shaped beans with a line separating them, but having been passed enough of similar images (usually involving one “bean”) in his lifetime, he knew precisely what was going on. These were not beans… far from it…

“Are you…?”

“Yes. Ten weeks.”

… _these were his children_.

Malcolm pushed aside his plate and placed the ultrasound photos down on the table. On the closer ones he could see the outlines of faces, hands, toes; signs that they were slowly becoming more and more human as they grew. He put his hand over his mouth as he stared at them, beginning to shake in nerves. Had someone asked him at fifty that he ever expected to be a father, he would have told them no and offered some of that tasty cunt-cake that the PM’s secretary had sent him. (It was the secretary, not the PM, as he suspected that the man himself was likely too dense to remember his own children’s birthdays, let alone his staff’s.) Now it was staring him in the face—it was _happening_ —and Clara had already said that her mind was made up, which could have only meant that she was ready to _leave him_ if that’s what it took. For once, he was at a loss for words.

“Say something, Malcolm,” Clara ordered. “I don’t like you when you’re quiet like this.”

He swallowed and took his hand from his face, placing both hands palm-down on the table. “How did this happen?”

“When I went off my medication to prepare for the new one, we likely hadn’t switched to condoms quick enough to prevent this, and we tend to shag _a lot_ , and…” Clara bit her bottom lip—she didn’t want to continue. She was merely hoping that there was enough of their relationship left after this to make it so that her children knew their cousins; they wouldn’t have a spare set to gravitate towards like Sarala had. Malcolm stood and she closed her eyes; she didn’t want to watch him walk away… she _couldn’t_.

“Clara…?”

His voice instead sounded much closer, the unexpectedness of it making her jump. When she opened her eyes again, she saw him knelt down next to her, leaning in for a kiss. He was warm and inviting as he pressed their lips together, which only made her cry harder. Fuck her shite hormones—she was soon sobbing uncontrollably into his shoulder, only feeling comforted by the fact his arm was around her. She felt weak, hapless, and so unlike herself from a mere few months ago. How was she so quickly spiraling out of control? The fact Malcolm had only come closer was a temporary balm, that much she knew, but that was not an answer. There was still time for him to back away.

Just then, Malcolm took the handkerchief from his pocket and used it to tab at her tears, leaving makeup-stains on the pure white fabric. “Don’t be like that,” he murmured gently. “You’re a fucking wreck; the Clara I love isn’t a wreck, pregnant or not.”

“I can’t help it—I’ve spent the past couple of months terrified of what was going to happen when I told you… what I would need to do if you weren’t up to the change that is coming…”

“Then take this,” he said. He put the ring box in her hand and closed her fingers around it. “Just let me know what you want to do.”

Clara opened the box and saw the ring, gasping at the sight of it. A brilliantly-golden topaz flanked by two smaller diamonds, she was speechless as she took it from the box and slid it effortlessly over her finger, trying to choke out the words.

“Did you…?”

“Yes; since Friday. I know it is tomorrow, but, happy birthday.”

She kissed him in order to shut him up—only them.

* * *

When David brought the kids back a couple days later, he was not surprised at all to discover that his brother now had a fiancée, something he hadn’t thought possible until only that August. He smiled, congratulated the couple, and reminded them that they were now obliged to attend Christmas that year. Malcolm cussed at the very idea, yet Clara jumped at the opportunity—of _course_ they were coming to Christmas. They all were.

A couple more weeks ensued of phone calls, planning, and making sure that the shop was well-guarded by Fuckoff (and that Fuckoff was to be well-fed by Jamie, who was _not_ going to Scotland for anyfuckingthing thank you fucking much; bring us back a wee haggis to slaughter, mate), until Malcolm and Clara went their separate ways in the train station, he taking the kids directly to Glasgow and her stopping at Blackpool to pick up her father before heading their way. Malcolm’s parents had insisted that Clara’s father and stepmother come as a sort of precursor to the impending wedding, with no one in the know letting out the _other_ impending event that the couple was about to unleash upon the family. Luckily for everyone involved, Linda already had an engagement that she could not break over the Christmas holiday, and with her father and grandmother in-tow instead, Clara set out for Glasgow with a renewed sense of vigor that could only come from a lack of Linda.

Malcolm had met them in the station upon their arrival, getting an approving glance from Gran and a nod from Dave. After putting everyone in his brother’s car, Malcolm took his future in-laws to the rectory at St. Thaney’s where everyone was being housed. Having been a former boarding house for young, single ministers awaiting their assignments, St. Thaney’s had inadvertently become the perfect place to house family gatherings, the Reverend and Mrs. Tucker had decided, and they were elated to have their eldest boy back along with newcomers. Twelve was a pleasant, gentle number to have in the house during the holidays and she was glad that they were all finally there.

Christmas quickly came and the mechanizations of a Tucker Family Christmas were underway. Everyone but Malcolm went to the holiday service, leaving him to begin the first rounds of dinner prep while away from the parts of his upbringing that no longer made him comfortable. The rectory was full of sumptuous smells by the time the others returned and Granny Joan pulled Carrie into the kitchen with her in order to kick Uncle Malcolm out—he had done his penance for missing his father’s sermon, and it was time that the teen started helping prepare Christmas dinner (with promise that her brother and cousin would join them in two years’ time).

By the time everyone sat down at the table and Grace was said, nothing had been burned even the slightest bit, which according to the ones teaching her to bake down in London, was just short of a Christmas miracle. Iscah pouted while she put food on her plate—adults were not funny.

“For our newcomers,” Reverend Tucker said as he put some turkey on his plate, “we have a tradition where we go around the table and try to say three things that was good about the previous year, as well as three things we hope to have within the coming year. It is to help us reflect on the good in our lives, despite any bad that might’ve happened.”

“Is this a Kirk thing?” Gran wondered.

“No, just a Tucker thing,” Joan replied. The two old women gave one another a nod—they were becoming disturbingly fast friends, as Malcolm and Clara noted, and would need to be watched.

“Oooh! I’ll go first!” Matthan said, jerking his hand high up. His grandfather gave him permission and he put down his hand. “I’m glad I got to stay with Uncle Malcolm and Aunt Clara when Mam and Dad moved, I’m glad we have a cat now, and I’m glad for all the new friends I made in Shoreditch!”

“…and what are you looking forward to?” Bruce asked, patting his son’s shoulder. The lad did not ponder long over his dinner, knowing precisely what he wanted to say.

“Uh, when Aunt Clara becomes my _official_ aunt, when I get to spend time with you and Mam over summer holiday, and when the robotics club starts after Christmas! Now you try, Aunt Clara!”

“Oh, I couldn’t…”

“Whoever goes picks the next one, Aunt Clara,” Sarala said. “Rules are rules.”

“Now Sarala, it’s not _steadfast_ …” Reverend Tucker started, but Clara held up her hand to gently stop him.

“No, it’s alright,” she said. She held Malcolm’s hand underneath the tablecloth and took a deep, nerve-steadying breath. “I am grateful to have taken a walk one day in March, because otherwise I doubt I would have met Malcolm, and by extension everyone else in the Tucker Family. I am grateful for the life I lead, even if it is hectic, and I am grateful that I teach students that love to learn, not just the three at the end of the table.” She gave Iscah, Sarala, and Matthan a wink as they giggled. “As far as the coming year is concerned, I am looking forward to marriage, to motherhood, and to when the kids start up in robotics club and I get the flat to myself for a bit for once.”

Everyone stopped eating and taking food to stare at Clara, wondering if they had all caught her correctly.

“ _Motherhood_ …?” Dave repeated. “Are you going to try to have children right away, then?”

“We will have two of them by June, Dad,” Clara replied. “I was actually hoping that Reverend Tucker could take care of the ceremony while we were up and everyone’s here—just to get it out of the way—so we can concentrate on preparing the guest room to become the nursery. A baby takes a lot of preparing, twins even more so.” She took a sip of her water as Malcolm hissed something in her ear about “not Da,” or something along those lines; honestly, she wasn’t listening.

“You’re…” Elsie swallowed hard as she processed the information, “…you’re pregnant? _Now_ …?”

“Why else would I turn down a red wine older than my teaching career?” Clara replied, motioning towards the drink at the other woman’s place setting. “You’ve been saving that for a special occasion, clearly, and I would otherwise be a fool to pass that up.”

With the initial shock wearing off, the table erupted into a cacophony of questions and congratulations. There was so much that everyone needed to know (Do you know what gender they are? Not until they’re born. Did anyone else know? Only Carrie, who has been marvelous at covering for us. Have you picked out names? Not yet), and there did not seem like nearly enough time to cover everything before the food got cold.

Clara and Malcolm both knew that if they were to break it to their families, that now was the time to do it, and they wouldn’t’ve changed it for anything. They kept their fingers entwined as they fielded questions and got incredulous stares from their fathers; it was certainly the best Christmas either of them had in a long time.

* * *

The end of the week drew near and St. Thaney’s was shut for the afternoon to visitors, as there was a private ceremony and they were not to be disturbed. In actuality, it was the only way that Malcolm would agree to having the wedding right then and there, as he did not want the multitude of the parish’s twats and tits from his childhood butting in and creating a scene when there really was none to be had. He _enjoyed_ not being in the forefront—why else would he had gone for Communications and not Premiership—and grumbled under his breath that they even had the organist there in the loft, for once she was released from her duties for the day, he knew it was only going to be a matter of time before the entire parish population knew, including his fellow wayside members.

She _had_ to be there, his father insisted as they got ready, because a wedding involved music and singing, and singing to music at church was like praying twice, and every couple needs all the prayers their loved ones can manage. Malcolm simply straightened his tie and scowled into the mirror; he was glad that there was normally a few hundred miles between him and his father, because it was bad enough that a week of being back in Glasgow made him want to blow his top… he didn’t dare want to think of what it would be if they could be in contact even _more_.

It all seemed to fade away, he noticed, once the ceremony was underway. Malcolm could not take his eyes off Clara, completely enamored by the sight of his bride. Her round face was becoming even rounder and her curves more pronounced now that she had put on a noticeable amount of pregnancy-weight. _Fuck_ … his horny arse had done this to her, and he was nearly hard at the thought that she not only accepted it, but was just as thrilled about being there as him. The realization allowed him to ignore his father’s pronouncements and ballyhoo, which he put up with the same way that Clara put up with him not going to church on Christmas: because they were in love. Not only that, but they were in love because they respected one another, down to their very faults—he a shouty sinner and she a bossy control freak—and there would be little to stop them in the years to come.

They exchanged their vows and kissed; to Hell with whomever attempted to get in their way.

* * *

Samantha and Domhnall would not. Stop. **_Screaming_**.

Already achy from having a shitetastic day in the shop, Malcolm creaked his joints awake as he sat up to look towards the cot in the corner of the room. Nothing smelled off, so he knew it wasn’t the nappies, meaning he gently put the back of his hand against Clara’s breast—it was slightly wet, alerting him to the fact it was feeding time. He let his wife sleep as he shuffled out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen, fetching premade bottles to warm up in the microwave oven. The bottles were just barely warm when he heard a door open on the other end of the flat. Fuckoff scuttled into the kitchen and slammed her body against his ankles—Matthan.

“Uncle Malcolm, why are Sammy and Nally so loud?” the lad pouted. “I start school next week—will they always be this loud?”

“Just a couple more months, then it’ll be better, your mam promised,” Malcolm said. Too exhausted to even cuss, he held out a bottle towards the twelve-year-old in offering. “Which one do you want?”

“I’ll take Nally.”

“Then let’s get a move on.”

The two then snuck back into Malcolm and Clara’s room, plucked the babies from their cot, and brought them back out into the sitting room to feed. Both infants sucked down their milk with vigor, not caring that their benefactors were not awake as they were.

“Uncle Malcolm?”

“Yeah?”

“Sammy and Nally won’t fully move into the nursery until they sleep through the night, right?”

“Yeah; I wouldn’t do that to you kids unless there was no choice,” Malcolm assured. “They’re almost three months now, and your mam said that if she put you on foods at three months and you slept through the night, then that’s what we’re doing with these two.”

“Babies sure are hard,” Matthan nodded sleepily. He burped his cousin and continued feeding him. “Is that why Aunt Clara doesn’t want to go back to work yet?”

“It’s either that or her gran stays here until these two are off to playgroup, and I don’t think you want Granny Oswald chatting up customers and wandering around the flat and getting in your things.”

“Nuh-uh; it’s bad enough Fuckoff gets in my stuff.”

“If that’s a problem, just wait until these two start crawling.” Malcolm chuckled as he watched Matthan cringe in disgust. “Don’t worry, Matt—they’ll mean the world to you, and you to them.”

“Yeah, but they still are loud and smelly and spit up over me.”

“…then just think about what it’ll be like if you or Carrie or Sara ever have kids, and then Sammy and Nally will be the ones to suffer.”

“That’s true,” Matthan nodded. His cousin was now full and falling asleep in his arms. Malcolm quickly finished feeding his daughter, put her back in the cot, and rescued his son from the sleepy clutches of his nephew. With both babies asleep, a blanket thrown over Matthan and Fuckoff, and the flat back in order, Malcolm retreated to his bed once more. He snuggled up behind Clara, one arm over her waist and his chin atop her head.

“Thank you,” she murmured, still asleep herself.

“Thank _you_ ,” he replied. All was hectic, yes, and he could do with a full night’s rest, but it was good—better than good, even—and he was content with his life for once.


End file.
